In kidnaping the victim was a living being, not a corpse. The victim was suffering and would continue to suffer until released, and stood a very good chance of being murdered besides. There was a great urgency about kidnaping. Somebody was in trouble and the detective had to get him out of it. Camelia Essex was in trouble. He wished someone else had the responsibility of getting her out.
At the same time he wished he could get his hands on the kidnapers.
He combed his hair and bathed his lip in cold water and then dressed. The swelling on his lip had gone down a little. He took a flashlight out of his suitcase and went out into the hall. Except for the murmur of the sea there was no noise. Quietly he walked along the carpet past the stairs, hearing briefly the sound of voices below, and entered the left wing of the house. The door at the end of the hall he opened a crack, saw it was dark inside, slid into the room. Tall gray rectangles on three sides of the room were french windows. He pulled the heavy drapes across these windows and pressed the button on his flashlight.
It was a very large, very beautiful room. The walls were of rosewood, rubbed with oil until the surface glowed like satin, and the floor, of polished yellow pine, bore Cossack scatter rugs, barbaric with primary colors. The furniture was slip-covered in brick red.
He swung his light around, feeling pretty sure he was in the rooms occupied by Essex. The french windows to the right, he was certain, led to the balcony from which the guard had watched him on the first night. Where was the bedroom? He turned his back on the fireplace and saw there was another door to the room. He started for it, but a glass-topped desk with a telephone on it caught his eye. He sat down on a red leather chair and pulled a drawer in the rounded red-lacquered pillar supporting one end of the glass top. He examined the letters inside, carelessly jumbled advertisements, bills, invitations. He had a feeling Essex was holding some information from him, some clue to the identity of The Eye. If The Eye was really a crank with a grudge wouldn’t he have tried to reach Essex in some way before writing those mysterious notes? He thought so. He goggled at a bill from Cye for two dozen voile shirts: $312. There was another from Charvet; thirty cravats: $225. Van Sickle, on bond paper, called Mr Essex’ attention to two small items: three suitings amounting to $600, one Vicuna top coating at $275.
He was amazed at how much it cost to be rich. He closed the drawer and went through the other two. In one he found a left-hand golf glove and eight new balls; in the other a fountain pen, envelopes, monogramed paper and a bottle of ink. He held his flashlight to the ink. It was royal blue. He got up and opened the second door.
His light was dazzling on white structural-glass walls, on blue and white porcelain, on silver mirrors, on blue and scarlet tile. It was the bathroom. He went on through a small dressing room with drawers built into the wall two thirds the way to the ceiling. The bedroom was quite large and there were french windows along one side. He saw a double bed of carved walnut, a white marble fireplace, some books on a table beside the bed. On it were also a green thermos decanter and two glasses. His feet sank into the thick green-gray rug as he crossed the room to the door on the other side. He opened it and flashed his light into the room thus exposed and breathed through his half-open lips, “Ah!”
The room belonged to the early, fluffy Jean Harlow period. Everything was in white except the black composition floor. The walls were ivory, the ceiling chalk white, the furniture cream with white leather. On the bed, on a lazy comforter, was a white teddy bear. Long haired white rugs, scattered about the composition floor, looked like blobs of whipped cream on a blackberry tart.
This was really all he wanted to know: that Miss Day had access to Essex’ bedroom. But he went on into the room. The Smith-Brothers-cough-drop eyes of the teddy bear followed him as he went to a white writing desk, examined the drawers. He found only one letter, addressed to Dawn Day and signed by a Rudolph Ginsberg. Would Miss Day be interested, Mr Ginsberg inquired, in a nice spot at the Boulevard Yacht Club in Chicago? The salary would be a hundred and fifty dollars per on a ten-weeks contract. Apparently Miss Day would not since the letter was dated March 3. Nearly a month ago. Crane wondered if Miss Day had been with Essex then. Here was a possible explanation of the mystery of the notes.
He wondered what he would have done if he had caught Miss Day placing his note on his pillow last night. Shout for O’Malley? Like hell!
Grinning in the dark, he remembered that he was supposed to be at dinner. He went back through Essex’ room, carefully closing the connecting door, and entered the small dressing room. His light, going up the high row of built-in drawers, disclosed a cream-colored ceiling. Lines on one corner of the ceiling marked off a square with sides three feet long—a hatch leading to some sort of an attic. He was surprised that the house had an attic. He didn’t know houses had attics any more. He crossed the bathroom and was about to enter the big study when a noise made him halt. He drew back just as the lights were switched on.
A man came into the room and walked to the glass-topped table. He was a thick-set man in a dark suit and he walked with a sailorlike roll. He bent in front of the table, pulled open the third drawer in the red-lacquered pillar and thrust an object in it. When he came back to the door Crane saw that his nose had been broken and badly set. His face was sullen and there was a white scar over his left eye. He turned off the light and closed the door.
Crane waited for a full minute before going into the study. The man, he imagined, was Brown, Essex’ bodyguard. He went to the desk, flashed his light into the drawer. Besides the fountain pen, envelopes and monogramed paper there were two bottles. He held one to the light. It was the bottle of royal-blue ink. He held the other to the light. It was a bottle of red ink.
Chapter X
BY THE TIME camembert and toasted crackers and brandy were served most of the early tension had gone. This was partly due to the cocktails and the Rhine wine with the dinner and partly to Essex. While they were being served tomato juice in tall ice-surrounded glasses he urged them to discuss the kidnaping.
“Somebody might get an idea,” he said.
He looked quite ill, but he pretended to eat. His thin face was pale and his eyes were red from lack of sleep. When anyone spoke his eyes fixed on that person hopefully.
Crane and O’Malley ate prodigiously. Crane discovered that crawfish, eaten with melted butter and lime juice, tasted like New England lobster. The shell was yellow instead of red and perhaps the meat was tougher, but it tasted like New England lobster. He was disturbed about Camelia, too, but that didn’t affect his appetite. That didn’t affect his drinking, either.
Spreading liquid camembert on a rust-colored cracker, he told Craig, “I’ll have a B & B.”
Into a liqueur glass the butler poured two parts of fine champagne and one of benedictine. He presented it to Crane. Miss Day had to try it. “It’s good,” she reported.
“Sure it’s good,” said Crane. He was going to add that it would make hair grow on her chest, but he did not, feeling that the remark might be indelicate.
“What are we going to do tomorrow?” asked Tony Lamphier.
All through the dinner he had persistently brought the conversation around to the kidnaping. He was slightly dramatic in his agitation, clenching and unclenching his hands, running a palm over his close-cut black hair, nervously drumming the table with long fingers, but Crane thought his emotion genuine. He liked the way the guy was standing up. It was a tough blow to anyone who loved Camelia, but the guy was ready to fight. The only trouble was finding something to fight.
“What can we do?” Crane asked.
“You should say,” Major Eastcomb said. “You’re supposed to be a detective.”
“I am,” Crane said. “I can prove it with a certificate.”
The major scowled at him. He had been sullen all evening, had hardly spoken a word. Instead of the hock, he had drunk three whiskies with water during the meal.
“It seems funny, us eating and drinking,” Miss Day sa
id. “And Camelia out somewhere——”
“It does,” Crane agreed. “But that’s the way people act.”
Boucher finished his brandy, placed the inhaler on the table. “What have the police been doing?” he asked. His dark face, the hooked nose giving it a Levantine cast, was cunning. Below the sleeves of his dinner jacket his wrists showed, black with hair.
“They’ve been checking up on the servants,” said Major Eastcomb. “Going over their references.”
“Why?” Mrs Boucher asked.
For a long pull, Crane thought, she’d be the best of the women in the dining room. Her skin was good, her shoulders were athletic, yet feminine, her oval face was aristocratic, her brown eyes wise. He said, “Maybe the chief of police needs a butler.” He wondered why she had married Boucher. Money, maybe?
Major Eastcomb answered Mrs Boucher. “They think possibly someone inside the house is connected with the kidnap gang. Particularly in view of the notes.”
“I think they’re right,” said Lamphier.
“That’s just what I said,” exclaimed Miss Day. “Do you remember, Penn?” At the very bottom of the V in front of her black satin evening gown her skin changed from golden brown to white. “I told you that when you got the first note … at the Waldorf in New York.”
Nervously Penn Essex daubed at his lips with his napkin. “That’s right,” he said and added, “I told you the day after I received it, didn’t I?”
“Why—” Miss Day’s blue eyes widened for a second—“why, yes, I guess you did.”
O’Malley glanced at Crane. Both were recalling Essex’ denial that anyone was with him in New York at the Waldorf. Of course, possibly Miss Day wasn’t with him. But Essex had stressed “day after.” Naturally he’d want to protect Miss Day. But if she had been at the Waldorf it didn’t look so good for her. That would make her the only person who had been constantly with Essex during the time he had been receiving the notes. The fighter, Buster Brown, had been in New York at that time, but he was driving the Bugatti down to Miami when the second note came.
With what he had seen upstairs, Crane thought it very likely Miss Day had been at the Waldorf. O’Malley, although he didn’t know about the connecting rooms, came to the same conclusion. They both decided with satisfaction they’d better spend a little time on her.
Imago Paraguay had been listening to Miss Langley recount her English triumphs, relate what Tree said of her Juliet, of her Lady Macbeth, confide what Ellen Terry had told her of G. B. S., describe the mannerisms of the divine Sarah. Now she turned to Crane and asked, “Do you think I will be involved in the death of Roland Tortoni?”
“How do you mean?”
“The check. Do you remember the check I cashed?”
Crane remembered, all right, but he didn’t want to appear too bright. “The check?”
“When you ca-ame to Mr Tortoni’s office.”
“Oh, sure. For a thousand dollars.” He finished his brandy. “The police may ask you about it, but all you have to tell them is that he cashed it so you could gamble.”
“They will not arrest me?”
“Of course not. This isn’t Cuba.”
Imago Paraguay smiled. “I am glad.” Her teeth were very small and very white and even. “I was quite frightened when that funny ma-an was telling us of Tortoni’s death.” Her sloe eyes lingered on his face. “Did you not notice?”
She was contemptuously beautiful, like a temple mask. The lids of her eyes were a faint violet-green and they had the luster of work silk and her brows, jet black, were arched like bamboo trees in a wind. Her lips matched the scarlet of her gown, drawn tight over her small, firm breasts and fastened over the left shoulder with an emerald-eyed serpent of twisted gold.
“Yes, I noticed,” he said.
The ladies left the room first and he watched the dancer’s back. He felt strongly attracted to her, but at the same time she frightened him. She was as slender as a boy and her hips moved very little when she walked, but there was a great deal of appeal. It was a perverse appeal, perhaps because she was so contemptuous of it. He wondered if there was passion under that contempt. He wondered about her needle-sharp dagger.
He and O’Malley and the major had whisky. The others had more coffee. Tony Lamphier said, “I’m never going to get drunk again.”
“Why not?” asked O’Malley.
“If we’d all been sober last night they’d never have been able to take Camelia.”
“Sure they would,” said Crane. “If we’d been sober we wouldn’t have put up as much of a fight as we did.”
Boucher examined Crane. “How much of a fight did you put up?” His eyes, small and black, were unfriendly.
“I didn’t put this on with a paintbrush.” Crane showed him the bruise on his jaw.
“You’re a damned poor excuse for a detective, anyway,” said Major Eastcomb. He looked at Essex. “If I’d my way they’d have been fired long ago.”
“They’re doing what they can,” said Essex. His tone was defensive.
Crane grinned at the major. “You haven’t got your way,” he said.
O’Malley said, “While we’re talking, Major, suppose you explain now how you happened to get hit on the nose twice in the same place.”
“And maybe the brave Mr Boucher will explain why he didn’t take part in the struggle,” Crane said.
Boucher made a twitching movement with his shoulders, pulled his white shirt cuffs from under the sleeves of his dinner jacket. “I didn’t get there in time.” He frowned at Crane. “You know that.”
“I know you weren’t there,” said Crane.
“Let’s don’t have a dogfight,” said Tony Lamphier.
Crane said, “I’d like to know just what Boucher’s position is here. Whose guest is he?”
“My wife is a close friend of Camelia,” said Boucher.
“And what are you?”
Eyes narrowed, jaw thrust out, Major Eastcomb was looking at Boucher. “He’d like to be a close friend too,” he said.
“This doesn’t do any good,” said Tony Lamphier.
“Doesn’t it?” The major leaned toward Boucher. “Why have you been payin’ so much attention to Cam?”
Boucher looked worried. “I’ve been polite to her, that’s all.”
“You think it polite to dance with her all evening at Tortoni’s?”
“She’s a very good dancer.”
“And how is she at kissing?”
Both Tony Lamphier and Boucher stood up. Boucher said, “What do you mean?”
“I saw you on the balcony two nights ago.” The major was out of his chair, his palms on the table. “She had to fight to get away from you.”
Boucher glanced apprehensively at Essex. “I lost my head for a second.”
“You rat,” said Tony Lamphier.
O’Malley grinned at Crane.
“You lost your head!” Major Eastcomb grunted. “Not your head for figures. You know how much Camelia is worth to a penny. You’d like to marry her. You could divorce Eve and live comfortably then, couldn’t you?”
“He’s insane,” said Boucher.
“I was insane enough to have an investigation made of your financial rating.” The major turned triumphantly to the others. “What do you think it was?”
“Zero,” said Crane.
“Worse. He has to have thirty-five thousand by the end of this month or the Baltimore banks will dispose of the Boucher estate in Virginia.”
Boucher looked as though he would like to hit the major but didn’t dare. He looked frightened. His mouth was compressed into thin lines below his hooked nose. He pulled at his cuffs.
The major slapped the table. “The hunters put up at auction for the nouveau riche at Warrenton. The house where the Bouchers entertained Lafayette sold to some plumber from East Orange. No wonder he’d like to get Camelia … and her money.”
“Is this true, Greg?” asked Penn Essex.
“I am a little hard press
ed.” He had to swallow before he could go on talking. “But I swear I never had a thought of marrying Camelia.… You don’t think I’d—I’d want to throw over Eve?” When he pulled down his cuffs the black hair on his wrists squirmed like eels.
“I don’t know,” said Essex. “I don’t know what to think.”
“I know,” said Tony Lamphier.
“I swear I’m not trying to marry her,” Boucher said.
“You swear!” said Tony Lamphier.
“I did want some money,” Boucher said. “I admit that.” He rotated his shoulders, making a wrinkle run across the back of his dinner jacket. “I was trying to get Camelia to make me a loan.”
“Why didn’t you come to me?” Essex asked.
“You never have any money.”
“Has Camelia thirty-five thousand?” Crane asked.
“Close to that,” said Major Eastcomb. “She’s been saving part of her income.”
“Mother left her some money too,” Essex said.
“I could give her good security,” said Boucher. “I don’t see anything unreasonable in that.”
“Why did you kiss her?” demanded Tony Lamphier.
“I told you. She’s attractive. I lost my head.”
“Married men have tried to kiss girls before,” Crane told Lamphier.
The major said, “But even a kiss didn’t get him the money.”
“She said she’d consider it,” said Boucher.
“But you didn’t wait,” said the major.
Crane blinked at Boucher, noted that he was pale.
The major went on, “A fifty-thousand-dollar ransom would help, wouldn’t it, Boucher?”
With a swift underhand jerk Boucher sent a water glass into the major’s face. The glass struck his jaw, fell to the table, smashed a coffee cup, rolled from the table and shattered on the red tile floor. Coffee dregs made a mahogany stain on a white napkin.
The Dead Don’t Care Page 11